


Take Me Instead (FebuWhump 05)

by SylvanFreckles



Series: Freckles' FebuWhump 2021 [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Febuwhump, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Jaskier is a little shit, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Some lewd language, generic bad guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29277534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanFreckles/pseuds/SylvanFreckles
Summary: The man’s first, and greatest, mistake was considering Jaskier to be nothing more than a liability.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Freckles' FebuWhump 2021 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139234
Comments: 6
Kudos: 72
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Take Me Instead (FebuWhump 05)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, this one kicked my ass so hard! It's two days late and this is version four of this same story, I think, but I finally got it!

“So that was a ghoul?”

Geralt did his best to ignore Jaskier's voice as the bard trailed after him—at least this time he hadn't gotten in the way, though that was probably only because he wouldn't risk ruining his expensive silks in the mud and filth of a neglected graveyard.

“I was expecting ghoulish, but that was...that was just disgusting.”

Lips pressed in a thin line Geralt forged on, refusing to rise to the bard's colorful commentary. He wished he been able to bring Roach, though the path to the graveyard was too tangled to lead a horse through. As it was instead of leaving Jaskier behind and riding straight back to their (almost) comfortable barn loft to tend to his injuries he was stuck limping through the undergrowth with a constant chatter of commentary.

“Although I suppose the part where the, you know, the ribcage got stuck on your sword was entertaining.”

Geralt whirled to face Jaskier, irritation sharp on his tongue, but deflated a little at the way the bard was grinning up at him. “Jaskier...”

“Come on, Geralt,” Jaskier chuckled and patted him on the arm. “As far as anyone else will ever know it was a _bear_ ghoul, and the battle lasted the entire night and not a sparse seven minutes.”

“There's no such thing as a bear ghoul,” Geralt retorted, but his sour mood had been broken. It had been an easy hunt despite the slashes he'd taken to one leg, the farmer and his wife could rest assured that their curious children were no longer in danger from the ghoul, and the bard would have something other than the 'glories of autumn' to prattle on about for the next leg of their journey.

He should have known things were going too smoothly when he detected movement on the path in front of him. Footsteps, the clatter of sheathed weapons, the dull murmur of voices. Geralt took Jaskier by the sleeve and hauled him around until the bard was behind him.

“Stay close,” he hissed, cutting off his friend's protests. “Stay behind me and don't say a word.”

The men were visible now, threading through the undergrowth. Geralt straightened up and tried to hide the slight limp of his injured leg, nodding in greeting when one of the men stepped out onto the path before them.

“You the Witcher?” the man demanded. He was in leather armor with the crest of a noble house embossed on the left shoulder. The others who were filtering in through the trees were dressed similarly, though none in quite the same quality as this man.

“And if I am?” Geralt asked, raising an eyebrow. There were at least seven of them. Not the best odds for this situation. He'd brought his silver sword to deal with the ghoul, though he always had a few daggers hidden about his person. 

“My name is Luther,” the man in leather armor rested both hands on his belt, somehow sneering down at Geralt despite being a few inches shorter than him. “Baron Belial wants to see you at his manor house, freak.”

Geralt snorted. “Not interested,” he replied and started walking, meaning to push past Luther and his men.

Luther stepped in front of him, one hand up and the other resting on the hilt of his sword. “It wasn't a request. You killed his honor's nymph and he demands satisfaction.”

“His what?” Jaskier demanded, ducking under Geralt's arm when the Witcher tried to hold him back. “That wasn't a nymph, that was a rusalka! It had already killed three innocent boys, and by the time we caught up with her she had a fourth in her grasp.”

“Whatever you want to call it, your job was to capture her and bring her to his honor's manor house. He delights in bedding unusual conquests.”

“Oh, yes, I've heard of him,” Jaskier threw back his head and laughed. “Didn't he send half his guard on a wild goose chase for a forest dryad, only to discover they'd brought back a rotten log that collapsed beneath him when he tried to mount it?”

“You little!” one of the other men pushed forward, hand raised to strike Jaskier, but Geralt pushed himself between them before the blow could land. To his credit, Luther had also turned to catch the man's arm mid-swing.

“Quiet, Shasta. Know your place.”

“What do they call him? Belial the imbecile? A man so convinced of his own virility he thinks he's fathered seven children with his estranged wife despite spending no more than an hour in her presence over the last five years?”

“Enough, Jaskier,” Geralt hissed, as Shasta let out another cry of rage. “Hold your tongue.”

Turning back to face Luther, he folded his arms across his chest. “I have nothing to say to Belial. And, considering I never asked for payment for the destruction of the rusalka, he has nothing to say to me.”

“That's not for you to decide,” Luther replied, shaking his head. “Are you going to come along peacefully?”

There was a sound in the trees. The faint creak of wood and leather as unseen bowmen drew back their arrows. Geralt's frown deepened—the eight ruffians here he could take on easily, even without his steel sword, but bowmen in the trees were another danger. That was the familiar creak of hunting bows, not crossbows, and a well-trained hunter could draw and fire in the blink of an eye.

“Jaskier,” Geralt twisted enough to look at his friend. “Let the farmer know the forest is safe again, then take Roach and continue to Halfmire. I'll catch up with you there.”

“Absolutely not!” Jaskier protested.

“He's coming too,” Luther said, in the same moment. “My orders are to bring any companions you're traveling with as well.”

Geralt glared at the bard for a moment, willing Jaskier to go along with his plan. Belial could have no obvious reason to want Jaskier as well as the Witcher, so it they were likely only planning to take his companion to ensure his cooperation. “Luther. Look at him,” he nodded toward Jaskier—the flimsy clothes, the narrow shoes. “He'll only slow you down. Leave him here, by the time he reaches any kind of civilization we'll be deep in the baron's territory.”

Luther hesitated, so Geralt pressed further. “Bind him to a tree if you like. He's no threat to you.”

“Oh, I like that!” Jaskier snapped. “No threat to them, indeed. I'll tell the entire continent about their precious baron's behavior. I'll sing it in every tavern until the whole region is humming along to the tale of Belial the Bastard, who sent his tenants' innocent children to their death all so he could dally with a man-eating rusalka.”

Shasta let out a wordless cry of rage and charged at Jaskier. Geralt moved to intercept, but three of the other men leaped into his path to confront him. Others joined in, and though he could have easily thrown them off he let himself be wrestled to the ground as Luther called for his men to calm down.

A few feet away, Shasta had Jaskier on his knees with a knife at his throat. The bard's left eye was already swelling up from a hard blow and blood was trickling out of his nose, but he was refusing to flinch even as Shasta yanked him around by his hair and threw him to the ground.

“Bind their hands,” Luther said. “We have a long march ahead of us.”

* * *

“You're an idiot,” Geralt whispered, once they were up and walking. Their wrists were bound behind them, they'd been stripped of their weapons, and Luther had sent some of his men ahead to scout out the road. Shasta was still with the main group, to Geralt's disgust. That man had taken all of Jaskier's insults to the baron a bit personally.

“I couldn't just let them take you,” Jaskier protested.

“Yes you could,” Geralt hissed back. “I'm the one he wants.”

“Yes, yes, they only want me to force you to do their bidding,” the bard shrugged. “But, Geralt, if I wasn't here...I know that they...” he swallowed and lifted his chin, and for just a split second Geralt could see a hint of the fear his friend was hiding. “Anyway, at least you'll arrive at the baron's estate in one piece.”

Of all the idiotic, self-sacrificing...

“Hey! No talking!” Shasta gave Jaskier a hard shove from behind, hard enough to knock him to off his feet. The man took a step back as though to line up a kick, but Geralt was between them in an instant.

“Shasta, get back to the rearguard,” Luther called.

For a moment it seemed like Shasta would ignore his superior, his entire frame trembling with the urge to strike out at Geralt. “Keep your pet under control, freak,” Shasta hissed. “Next time I cut his tongue out.”

Geralt stared at the man until Shasta returned to his place at the rear of the group, then turned to find Jaskier already struggling to his feet. “See?” the bard said with a weak smile. “Now you don't have to face the baron with a skinned knee.”

He huffed out a sigh of exasperation, but made sure he was close to the bard as they continued walking. It had been a gamble, anyway—men like this probably would have killed Jaskier outright if they hadn't taken him along.

There had to be some way to escape this. If he distracted the guards and told Jaskier to run for it, the bowmen would cut the bard down before he'd gotten more than a few paces away (if he even tried for it...the stupid, loyal idiot). 

If he could get his hands free he could get ahold of a weapon and it might not be impossible to strike enough of them down to send the others running for their lives. But that would mean waiting for the right opportunity, and a careful plan to take out the most dangerous of the group as quickly as possible.

Geralt twisted enough to send Shasta a dark look. The man had a violent temper and had already struck the bard more than once, despite Geralt's best efforts to intervene. Shasta, Luther, and the bowmen were the biggest threat. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier whispered, leaning in closer to him. “What's the plan?”

“Cooperate,” Geralt growled back. When Jaskier snorted at that he nudged the bard with his shoulder. “I mean it. Don't give them a reason to hurt you.”

Jaskier cast a fearful glance behind them, and for the first time Geralt caught sight of the coiled whip hanging from Shasta's belt. “I don't believe that one is going to wait for a reason.”

Geralt nearly bared his teeth, holding Shasta's gaze when the man finally looked over at them. “Leave him to me.”

* * *

The sun was low in the sky when they finally stopped for the night. They'd been given water but no food—which was stupid, Geralt thought. They couldn't be expected to march the two days back to Belial's estate on empty bellies, not if Luther wanted to keep up a decent pace.

Geralt settled next to Jaskier, angling himself so the bard was between him and the meager fire. They were too far away to really feel its warmth, but his friend was already shivering in the growing cool of evening. He'd been trying to work his hands and wrists through some small exercises during the day, so that in the event that he got free and picked up a weapon he wouldn't be waving it around like and oaf. As a result his wrists were chafing and bloody, but his fingers still had some of their strength.

“Is this the part where we escape?” Jaskier whispered, leaning into Geralt for the sparse warmth that the Witcher could offer.

“Try to get some rest,” Geralt replied, studying the camp around them. They had walked here, not ridden, though there was a single donkey loaded with supplies (and Geralt's silver sword) tied to a nearby tree. Two more men had joined the main group, bows slung over their shoulders. Luther was sitting on a fallen log, running a whetstone down the length of his sword. One of the archers had brought back a brace of hares, which had been skinned and were turning on a spit over the small fire. The skinning knife had been left sticking in the ground just a few feet away from Geralt and Jaskier, but there was no chance of reaching it without being noticed.

“Are you always this gloomy?” Jaskier called. Geralt kicked at him to shut him up but the bard twisted away. “I supposed your lord doesn't pay you to smile, but surely even he must complain that you're a dour bunch of halfwits.”

“Jaskier!” Geralt hissed. Did his friend have a death wish?

As expected, Shasta stormed up to them and caught Jaskier by the collar, hauling him up enough to sneer into his face. “Say that again.”

Jaskier grinned at his tormentor—the bright, infuriating smile that had better men than Shasta wanting to throw him through the nearest window (as Geralt could testify many, many times over). “Did you not understand the first time? I was merely suggesting that your jackass of a baron probably complains that you're too dull to break wind without careful instructions.”

With an inarticulate cry, Shasta drove his knee into Jaskier's stomach, then followed that with a blow to his shoulders that sent him crashing to the ground. The man followed him down, fists flashing as he pummeled the bard's unprotected face and chest.

Geralt lunged up to his knees and shot a look at Luther. The other man met his gaze and gave a shrug. “Your friend has to learn his place.”

Jaskier was spitting blood by the time Shasta finally stood up, aiming one final kick at the bard's midsection. “Do you end all arguments this way?” Jaskier wheezed. He'd rolled onto his back and was at least trying to push himself toward the fire, away from the man standing above him. “Truly, your grasp of the common tongue is astonishing.”

Shasta's lip curled in a sneer, and then he was flicking the whip free from his belt. Geralt had just enough time to see Jaskier's eyes widen—though it almost looked like victory instead of fear, so, really, the bard must have lost his mind from terror—before he was up on his feet and running, sliding, diving to cover Jaskier's body with his own.

The first crack of the whip caught him across his armor, and though it wasn't quit enough to cut through the heavy leather the weight of the blow still drove Geralt's breath out. Jaskier was twisting beneath him, grunting at the pain of the Witcher's significant weight pressing on the injuries he'd sustained, and then Shasta struck again. This time the whip caught across Geralt's hands, sending a jolt of pain up his arms. Then the man had stomped on Geralt's injured leg and grabbed the rope that bound his wrists, trying to haul him away to get at the bard he was protecting.

“Enough!” Luther called. “Shasta, you've had your fun. Leave the prisoners alone.”

Shasta released him with an impatient snarl, and Geralt waited until he heard the man walk away before carefully rolling off of Jaskier.

“You idiot!” he hissed. “Why would you goad him into doing this?”

Two more of the men approached them to drag them back away from the fire, dumping them back-to-back at the edge of the firelight.

Jaskier pressed back into Geralt, and the Witcher felt something cold and metallic being nudged into his hands. “I'm afraid this is all I can do,” he whispered back, whimpering a little when his breath caught. “Does this...does this help your plan?”

Geralt traced the contours of the skinning knife, glancing around to verify that no one had noticed its absence yet. With a deft twist he sawed through the ropes binding his wrists and nearly let out his own moan of pain as circulation returned. “I take it all back,” he replied, fumbling to free Jaskier's wrists. “You're a genius.”

Shasta was still pacing and muttering, a little too close for comfort. Geralt waited until Luther turned his back on the camp, probably to relieve himself against a tree, and propped himself up enough to glare at Shasta.

The man stopped, noticing the Witcher's gaze. “What?”

He smirked and dropped back down, hands still hidden behind his back. Furious steps stormed there way over to him, and Shasta was leaning down to grab Geralt's collar, his other fist cocked for a blow.

Geralt lunged up and buried the skinning knife in the man's neck, yanking it back out with a vicious twist. While Shasta when down coughing and flailing at the blood now spurting from his injury Geralt pulled his sword free and climbed to his feet.

“Jaskier?”

“On it,” the bard wheezed, pulling himself into the shelter of a massive oak's twisting roots and curling into a ball.

The men began to scramble for their weapons, but Geralt was too fast. He didn't enjoy killing humans, but it only took a few strokes to incapacitate Luther's two bowmen, then he was parrying a blow from one of the swordsmen and rolling, twisting, darting away to put some distance between them.

Luther was running back into camp now, his belt loose in his hands and his breeches bagging at the knees. He fumbled for his own blade but Geralt sent him crashing back to the ground with a blast of  _aard_ . He dodged two more attacks, killing one man and wounding the other, and then he was kneeling over Luther and driving Shasta's sword deep into the meat of the man's shoulder. The blade went through the shoulder and into the ground on the other side, and Geralt pressed it down until the hilt pressed to Luther's skin.

“Tell your baron that I decline,” he growled. Then he pushed himself back up to his feet, staring balefully at the rest of Luther's men. Two were dead, four incapacitated including Luther's bowmen, and the four remaining men looked about to piss themselves with fear.

“We're leaving,” Geralt announced. He stalked over to tug the donkey's lead free, pulling his silver sword out to sling over his back. “You won't stop us.”

One of the men looked about to draw his weapon, but a feeble wave from Luther had him standing down. Geralt ignored them as he lead the donkey over to Jaskier and crouched beside his friend.

“Jaskier?” There had been a heavy woolen cloak thrown over the donkey's back and he wrapped that around his friend's trembling frame. “Can you stand?”

Jaskier took his hand and let himself be pulled to his feet, stumbling a little before Geralt wrapped an arm around his back. The bard let out an audible moan of relief when Geralt guided him to mount the donkey after discarding a few of the bundles strapped to the animal's back. “Oh, you sweet, blessed creature,” Jaskier whimpered, doubling over to rest his forehead in the beast's coarse mane. “I shall never take you for granted again.”

Geralt snorted at that and tugged the donkey around, pulling him onto the path and away from the camp. “You've never seen this donkey before, Jaskier.”

“It doesn't matter. I shall write him a ballad...an ode to the splendor and majesty of the humble donkey.”

Slurred though his words were, they brought Geralt some relief. He hadn't wanted to take the time to look over Jaskier's injuries while they were in the camp, but the bard waxing poetic about their new traveling companion was a good sign.

“I mean it, Geralt,” Jaskier protested. He had tugged the cloak tight around himself and was huddled against the donkey's neck to absorb the beast's warmth. “You may have slain my tormentor, but this little fellow is the real hero tonight.”

Geralt smirked, though Jaskier couldn't see it in the dark, and patted his friend's knee. “Of course he is.”

He had tucked the skinning knife into his belt, thinking that it would be a good story to tell his brothers when he returned north for the winter. After all, Luther's first mistake had been considering Jaskier nothing but a liability.

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for the "generic fantasy names" for Shasta and Luther. I ran out of brain trying to do this.
> 
> And hey, we almost, sort of, got one of the promised Geralt snuggles in there, didn't we? That's enough, right? Surely they don't need any more than that. I mean, you'd tell me if they need more than that...right?


End file.
